


die of fun

by sidechick



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Cute, Dom Drop, Dom rey, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Married Couple, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Proper BDSM Etiquette, Star Wars: A Love Story, Sub Ben, Suburbia, Time Skips, Vaginal Sex, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-17 10:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21266030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidechick/pseuds/sidechick
Summary: the working title of this was "bdsm suburbia reylo but they met in college" and that's pretty much it***People he bedded often expected him, a big irritable guy, to act in a certain fashion, but she made no such assumptions. She ruthlessly instructed him through licking and fingering her until her toes curled and legs trembled and, when he attempted to escalate the situation, literally huffed in his face.“Yeah, right. Get on your back, Prep School.”
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	die of fun

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by exactly two things:  
1\. the song [Mercy by Hurts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pymh-4n7eCI) (ironically);  
2\. this meme  


New neighbors arrive early on a spring Saturday to breathe life back into the vacant Urso house. It was shameful for such a beauty – two-storey French windows extravaganza! – to remain empty. The weather is pleasant, warm but not without shade. Professional movers trail in an ant-like chain out of the stained glass doors down the driveway and back, quick and efficient. There’s no colorful children-adjacent paraphernalia, but there is a pair of canoes and mountain bikes.

“Oh, dang it. Those kind of people,” Emma says, pointing through the half-open blinds, and takes a sip of her tea.

“At least they won’t be home much,” Dave shrugs. “Maybe Claus and Karla will have someone else to be world-weary at.”

The lady of the house – or one of them, Emma would hate to _presume_ – arrives in a brand new pearly-white Honda HR-V. Sun licks its smooth side, customized with a wide orange stripe, as the driver turns to park. She’s young, slim, and Caucasian, in a short denim romper over blindingly white t-shirt, and matching white sneakers. Seems very enthusiastic about carrying boxes to-and-fro, that much is obvious.

Emma’s preliminary evaluation is cautiously positive. The neighbors have good (similar) taste in furniture, judging by what is being unavoidably paraded before the entire cul-de-sac. Folks with nice couches cannot be completely evil, that’s her theory. She starts the lasagna going, because Lord knows she’s never hungered for baked goods after a full day of hard labor. Give people carbs and protein!

She searches for the girl’s partner while seeding bell peppers. Sink right under the window – just common sense, really. No way is someone that young a sole owner. Theirs is very family-oriented community, with prices to match but prestige insufficient for luring in hip rich singles. There has to be some-

All movers have casual black “uniforms” on: mismatched pants and tops with the company logo. The one Emma silently promoted to supervisor due to his constants pointing stalks up to the girl, hugs her around the middle and straightens up, tearing those ribbed sneaker soles off the ground. They share a hard, close-mouthed kiss of celebratory variety before he goes back to pivoting the fridge with the others. The guy’s been here for hours and is as soaked as everybody else on the crew, dusty prints visible on the black fabric here and there. The girl’s not at all disgusted, which, obviously, speaks of true marital intimacy. He’s a tall, big guy. Good for you, Miss Enthusiastic!

All is quiet by the time Emma’s oven timer pings. She puts on something fresher than stained sweats, runs a brush through her hair (take care of those roots already, geez louise!), and lightly kicks both Dave and Joe as she walks past. They veg out in front of a seemingly endless Halo match in identical positions – on their stomachs with pillows under their chests, legs in the air. She wishes she could find it less tooth-rottingly cute.

Urso’s front lawn didn’t suffer much damage. There’s an indent where the realtor’s sign had been removed, but the grass survived slight neglect otherwise. Urso weren’t big on gardening, kept but several King’s Gold and a lone pink almond. The yard would seem a bit barren if it weren’t for the chestnut and walnut trees either side of the walkway.

As the doorbell melody travels, dimmed, deeper into the house, Emma shuffles through her amused theories on what the newbies can be up to. Christening the marble countertop? The day has been, no doubt, exhausting, but youthful energy is known to spring eternal. Or groaning on the floor in an empty room, drinking wine straight out of the bottle because glasses are somewhere, stuffed into a mislabeled box? That’s what she would do.

Door is answered by the guy in black, and he has no friendly smile to offer guests. Also, from up close? He’s pretty damn intimidating.

“Yes,” he says, ominous. Note the lack of a question mark. But Emma’s not more dissuaded than she was last fall at the baking fair after meeting her competitor, one of Tori Rolan’s dads. Moving is a complicated process; it involves battling with IKEA instructions and discovering all the shitty patch jobs the sellers did and… yeah, that tends to do things to people. Plus, the dude’s long hair is in a dorky half pony.

All right! Best PTA grin, show time.

“Hi, I’m Emma Kassar! We’re your neighbors from over-,” she drags the sound, spinning and quickly nodding towards her house, “-there! Welcome to the neighborhood! I come bearing gifts.” The lasagna serves as both her shield and a peace offering.

He glances between the tinfoil and her face like she’s baked her lost marbles into the ricotta and proclaims, dead flat: “Wow.”

Thankfully, an angelic voice rings from the inside, echo of the empty space around it.

“Are you being rude to the neighbors, babe?” Miss Enthusiastic springs from behind the guy as a sun reappearing after full eclipse. Her smile is wide enough and voice welcoming enough for the both of them, the accent only aiding it. She spreads a certain warm, bubbly energy. “Hi! We’re the Naberries! I’m Rey, and Grinch over here is my husband Ben.” Emma’s arms get unburdened, the dish extracted and plopped into apparently-Ben’s giant hands. Next, she’s been wrestled into a handshake. Rey’s grip is to match its bearer: warm and strong. She lets Emma go after a while to shield her eyes against the evening light. She’s barefoot, a handkerchief tied into cute bunny ears atop her head. She’s also obviously aware that truth is the best vaccine against gossip. “We’ve just moved up here for a work offer I got. I’m an engineer, Ben’s a chemist. Aren’t I lucky he can do his job from anywhere?” Somehow, Rey’s a step ahead and half in front of her husband now, so it takes a contortionist effort to pat him reassuringly while still facing Emma. 

STEM people are notoriously the worst. Emma just smiles wider. “So lucky! I live with my husband Dave and son Joe over-” she does the thing again, “-there. Welcome to the neighborhood. That’s lasagna, by the way.”

Rey’s sweet beauty is undercrossed by a gasp of delight. “Man, really? Thank god, you’re a lifesaver! I mean, I love cookies as much as the next guy, but that’s not what I need right now. Why don’t you take care of this, Ben,” she keeps friendly eye contact with Emma, but over her shoulder the husband almost jolts to attention, military style.

“Thank you. It was nice meeting you,” he says, in alignment with exactly nothing witnessed prior. To the core, it’s wooden. He turns around and marches out of view. Something must be showing on Emma’s face, because Rey giggles in that “what can you do” tone: “Don’t mind him, he’s a situational asshole. Runs in the family.” She seems amused and doesn’t look like she’s struggling to mop up someone’s mess (or “labor emotionally”, as Tori Rolan’s dad would say). Emma lives in the suburbs, she knows that look. There’s nothing forced about Rey’s mirth. Interesting!

“Oh, it’s fine,” she accepts. “At least some variety around here. It all gets too child-friendly after a while.”

“How lovely! We don’t have those, yet. But who knows? This is a very inviting environment-”

“So, how are the new guys?” Dave asks when Emma enters the kitchen to find him and Joe microwaving matches in the old “science” microwave.

“It’s like if Wednesday Adams married Elle Woods,” she gleefully reports. “I’m low-key high-key gagging.”

Actual gagging of sincere variety emanates from Joe, who screams in indignation: “Mom! No!” His sunburned nose is wrinkled beyond human ability.

“I am, how do you say it… shooketh?”

“Please, stop!”

***

Kassars are the first to notice. Dave, the dork, color-coordinated them into red bottoms and white-and-blue striped tops. Emma giggles the way only tipsy Emma does. Her glass is bucket-sized and full of something red with white star-shaped fruit slices in it. She descends like an ethanol-infused hurricane, Dave in tow, to whisper-shout: “Have you met the Naberries?” 

“The newbies? No, hadn’t had the chance yet, we were-”

“Kayaking, yes-yes, we know,” Emma shares her drink generously, shoving a vacant blue paper straw under Karla’s nose. It’s a mutated gin tonic. “You absolutely have to. First, they have canoes and stuff, so here’s one thing in common for ya-”

“Canoes and kayaks are not the same-”

“-second, and it’s the main reason: they’re bonkers. It’s amazing.”

“They’re nuts,” Dave shrugs. He’s not that sober, either, judging by the grass blade he’s chewing on.

“They’re a whole trail mix”

“In conclusion, I love them. Come see for yourself!”

The Naberries are a younger couple. The woman is lovely, summer personified: tanned and befreckled, with a wavy bob of brown hair washed out by the sun. She’s all chronically dimpled smiles with personality brighter than her aggressively yellow sundress. A lilting accent and some very white, very straight teeth are involved. Laughing affects her whole face, bunching up the nose and thinning the eyes. In contrast that’s almost comical, her husband is a Tim Burton character, the only human color on his hulking person – specks of maroon hiding in the iris. Except where goth puppets have this look of sad bewilderment, like they just discovered blood in their stool, the guy looks like he’s been done with socializing for upwards of an hour and is about to start popping… something; details unclear, but it’s going to be loud.

“This is Rey and Ben.” The former reaches out to shake their hands, applying surprising strength and vigor, while the latter salutes sourly with a bottle of lager. “Claus and Karla are also into paddling.”

The Naberries freeze.

“Forgive Emma,” Karla sighs. “She doesn’t understand kayaks and canoes are not the same thing.”

Rey swats at the blond in question and laughs, loud. It’s not melodic whatsoever, but very infections and joyful. “Emma, you silly!” Her husband swivels to the side a little and chugs his beer as if in hope it’ll choke him dead. “Similarities totally outweigh the differences, I’m sure!”

Karla decides to bite. “So… You ever went up to Canada for a portaging trip?”

After an hour of party-surfing they come back together with the Kassars near the ice bowl, and Claus is already quietly amused. He nods at the Naberries: he’s sprawled in a lounge chair like a big black cat as she stands vigil over him, taking the brunt of neighborhood curiosity by chatting people up. “Talk about beauty and the beast.”

“Even her dress matches, I swear, this is the best,” Emma enthuses. Her scoop scrapes the bottom of the carved watermelon. “Oh, shoot, we’re out of ice! I have some back at home. Maybe Rey does, too! I should ask her!”

“Okay,” Dave accepts, resigned in that way of all sober...-er spouses everywhere.

Eventually, everybody tags along and Rey _blooms_ at them, ecstatic to have any active task (and avoid further interrogation, no doubt). “Sure, let’s go check,” she says and turns to Ben, who started to prop himself up reluctantly. Her hand lands on his, tan over pale, pressing it back to the armrest, petting it. “No, babe, you stay. Relax. Wait for me, we’ll be back soon.”

He harrumphs and melts against the rattan weave after surrendering to a parting kiss. Eyes closed, he’s a clear personification of “fuck off”. Emma sniggers at the uninviting picture, hanging from his wife, which Rey doesn’t seem to mind. Claus sips a margarita and watches them leave. So, pros and cons of engaging the new guy- 

-something plops on his forehead.

The thunderstorm is violent as it descends.

It’s sudden. Cloudless sky was smiling down at the festivities just to turn dark and heavy and break all over them a second later. Children and overjoyed boozed up adults whoop and scream as they sprint for cover. The food, luckily, had been spread underneath a porch awning, but raindrops dilute abandoned drinks with loud plops, splashing colorful liquids everywhere. The pool, surface almost gray from ripples, is brimming with neon inflatables left behind in haste, and water drums a wild rhythm against them.

Karla is fortunate to scale the steps before her white slip dress turns translucent, and Claus helps her mop up the leaking mascara as they laugh into each other’s cheeks. That would usually evolve into making out, but a distressed moan from Dave makes them turn in perfect sync. It’s the Naberrie husband. Alone in the empty yard, he’s still sitting frozen in the lounge chair while downpour assaults surrounding landscape mercilessly.

“Ben!” Dave’s shout is harder to catch through the rain. “Come inside!” 

No reaction.

Debra, one of the hosts, joins them. “He probably can’t hear us. Here, an umbrella. Go get the dumbass.”

Naberrie still has his shades on, lenses covered in water. It runs down his head and, turning the sleek hair into rivulets of ink, makes his narrow face appear even thinner. His black t-shirt is soaked through and shiny, sticking to his chest like second skin, and there’s a little pool gathering in the v of his crossed legs. Nevertheless, when an umbrella shields him, he cranes his neck in well-pronounced irritation to ask:

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, dude,” Dave huffs, “come inside.”

Naberrie’s head goes back to reclining against the chair. “I’m good here.” A white-blue flash bursts not that far away, reflected in his sunglasses, and muffled thunder follows. The man doesn’t react, but Dave drops into a semi-squat, ducks.

“It’s dangerous! The lightning-”

“There’s a rod right there. No way I’m getting hit.”

Claus is content to let him marinate, the weirdo. He turns away just to notice Emma and Rey with bags of ice over their heads. The duo spills onto the porch, remnants of inaudible laughter shaking their shoulders. It dies when Carla grabs Rey and points, explaining rapidly. Rey’s happy face doesn’t lose its smile, but the expression calcifies, the curve of lips becomes sharp. Heavy steps carry her through the rain that scatters mustard polka dots over her yellow skirt. Her hair frizzes up immediately, and it seems like the main charge of electricity is not in the storm, but inside of her, this slender woman, following as she advances.

The order is short: “Ben, come inside, _now_.” And the picture is familiar: tan over pale. Rey peeling Ben’s hand from the armrest. 

He hasn’t moved a fingertip since she placed it there.

Fittingly, the storm is over in a blink. The grill, still sizzling, is opened up again. Children are all over the yard straightaway, heads thrown back in search of a rainbow. Fireworks survived in their place of honor deep inside the garage. Debra passes around a motley array of towels, and Claus pops by the laundry room to deposit the one he and Karla used into the laundry basket. It’s quiet inside the vacated house, noise and music expelled into July heat.

Through the door slit of downstairs bathroom he spots the Naberries: quarter of him sitting on the tub lip while half of her fusses over his black curls with a terrycloth.

“…good,” he’s saying.

She’s displeased. “Personal safety comes first, you know this.”

“It’s not cold at all. And the rod was right there. I wanted to.” The question comes after a charged pause, muted: “Was I?”

A tsk. “Yes. Very.” She throws the towel aside and descends upon her husband. 

That’s his cue to leave. Claus quietly lowers the basket lid and starts backing away.

“Why did we freak out, we’re not even into that,” Rey whispers feverishly behind him in-between soft wet sounds, and her only answer is throaty laughter.

“There’s something-” Emma declares in the end.

“-going on,” Dave concludes. They wiggle their eyebrows in unison.

***

The plate is shattered. White-edged pieces of blue glaze are catching light near the far wall of the tiny kitchen. Hux rolls his pale, pink-rimmed eyes.

“I sincerely hope you fuck this,” one long finger draws a circle through the air, “out of your system soon, because we only have one plate left.” A paper coffee cup knocks against the breakfast bar as he places it there carefully along with sugar packets, wooden mix stick, and napkins. “Here, caffeinate. Isn’t there someone who’s into whatever it is you have going for you.”

“Nope,” Ben answers with a pop. His fists open and close, open and close. The lamps in their apartment are too buzzy, too dry. His eyes are irritated. “I’m a niche interest.”

Except…

There’s been this one girl, wasn’t there? At Phasma’s sorority party last week. 

Everyone else went outside to watch the fireworks. She had him sliding down the wall in order to get her thigh between his legs, to rut against – damn height difference. _She_’s been kissing _him_, deeply, maintaining an iron grip on his nape and chin, fucking his mouth with her tongue. When their contact tittered on dizziness, she shoved him flash against the wallpaper and asked seriously:

“Are you too drunk for this?” Her accent had gotten worse. Good.

“What the fuck?” He said with a laugh, anchored by capping her sharp elbow. “I had, like, one beer.”

She squinted. “Recite the alphabet backwards.”

What the- “I can’t do that even when I’m stone-cold sober!”

“How about… Name the first five elements of the periodic table.”

“_That_ I can do even when I’m sloshed!”

They fell silent, her gaze slipping to his panting mouth. There wasn’t really any movement, except for that subconscious gentle rocking of bodies seeking friction. Her breath tickled his hypersensitive neck, right to the side of the Adam’s apple – a spot that drove him crazy. His t-shirt was sticking to skin, uncomfortably hot. He was hard to the point of painful, throbbing against the seam of his jeans. Her nipple, too, felt ready to poke a hole in the cotton top and his thumb resting atop it.

“Okay. Let’s do the straight line test,” she declared after stopping one sharp canine from tearing her puffy lower lip open.

Ho-ly shit. “This is stupid, I’m not doing it!”

“It’s alright if you wanna go. But if you agree… I would love for you to stay.” She shifted her weight to press that lean powerful thigh harder against his dick, hazel eyes all hopeful and extremely inconvenient. He wanted to see how far down her freckles went and find out if there’s a complimenting blush. To see if her nipples are light brown or dusty pink. To know if she’s a wet mess already, or a deep slick heat you have to work for.

They settled on the most prominent line in the linoleum pattern, he did the whole one-legged nose touching thing, and she literally lead him across the dim stuffy hall and muffled music by the dick.

He was too wound up to receive head and still be able to fuck her after, which he wanted desperately – sober consent talk and four scented condoms and all. So it went the other way. People he bedded often expected him, a big irritable guy, to act in a certain fashion, but she made no such assumptions. She ruthlessly instructed him through licking and fingering her until her toes curled and legs trembled and, when he attempted to escalate the situation, literally huffed in his face.

“Yeah, right. Get on your back, Prep School.”

The frayed mini skirt she had on basically became a denim belt – no need or patience to remove it for access, – and she bit the lower edge of her top to expose a distinct tan line and small, perfectly shaped breasts. The black flowery pattern of her bralette was translucent, crisscrossed by thin velvety strips, with darker circles of her nipples underneath, all neatly beaded up. He touched her atop the fabric, softness filling his palms like a dream, and pinched to drag the scratchy lace over sensitive skin. She rewarded him with an appreciative gasp. 

The third time he tried to clamp down on her hips and get his own tempo going, fucking up into her maddening heat, she grabbed his hands and led his fingers to wrap around the metal railings of the headboard. She leaned in, smelling of heated body, their shared arousal, the perfume she almost sweated out of, and whispered: “If you let go, I’m off your cock, got it?” 

Wild with want, he tested her resolve.

She wasn’t joking. He had to beg to get her to come back. His heels kept sliding on the slippery bed covers. The whole time she scrutinized him patiently from where she sat just above his knees, hot and leaking down his inner thighs. He tried again later, when his body started trembling from desperate tension, too tiny to contain his bursting heart, and her eyes, slitted by pleasure, flew open.

“Do it again and I will pinch you, I’m not kidding,” she heaved. “It’ll hurt. There will be a mark.”

He did it again.

Four days later, he still has the bruise her vicious grip-and-twist left on his flank. It faded to green. In class, he crosses his arms so no one can see and digs his thumb in to the point of responding dull ache.

He never came so hard in his life. It was brain-melting enough that he forgot to ask her name.

***

Hux is making them fashionably late, forsaking lab time in the name of this particular on-campus café he prefers – which requires a hook. The place is not charming or quaint or any of that, just a boring modern interior behind a glass wall. But the coffee is good. And Ben is not angry for long. As soon as they walk in, he sees _her_. The girl from the other night. His heart palpitates in unseemly fashion. She’s standing at pick up point with Paige’s sister and Poe’s annoyingly happy boyfriend. The Venn diagram of Poe’s current boyfriends and Ben’s annoyingly happy cousins is a circle. Lucky. Needless to say, Hux is abandoned to fare for himself.

There’s… a lot. A half ponytail, an oversized jean jacket. Hot pink running shorts from out of which her smooth, tan legs start to go and never fucking stop. Said shorts strive to justify their name to their best ability. There’s a white stripe running down the sides and along the bottom seam, undercrossing her butt. She’s tagging at the drawstrings idly as she laughs at some joke Finn made.

Ben sees all of this before their eyes even meet, because she stands sideways, facing away from him. He recognizes her immediately, from this much. 

“Ew,” is Finn’s greeting. “It’s alive.”

Paige’s sister unenthusiastically salutes with a drink. The girl turns. Her gaze lands somewhere around Ben’s clavicles and slowly climbs up. It’s not really a scowl, more of a very intense scrutiny. Recognition is immediate: she squeezes one eye shut, like he’s a sun she’s looking up at, and smiles. Morning is barely starting to stir, the rush hasn’t even arrived yet. Her face is sleep-puffy. She’s chewing gum. Ben swallows, throat dry.

Finn keeps at it. “Any hope you’ve inhaled enough of some deadly shit by now? Spilled something toxic on your hand?”

“You driving home this weekend?” Ben asks, looking at him not at all. Even though he’s very well aware he can’t pull it off, he goes for casual: props himself on the counter, leaning on one palm. Blocking the girl in. It probably looks about as natural as skyscraper capsizing, but he doesn’t really care.

“No, _you’re_ driving home. And I’ll be in the car. As usual.” Ben might be the most stiff person in any given room, but Finn can’t do mean for long. Here comes the genuinely worried puppy stare. “You’re not really unwell, are you?”

“Who’s your friend?” The girl asks pleasantly, also not looking at Finn. Easy voice aside, it brooks no argument. Her posture is straight, yet relaxed. Under the jacket, there’s an AC/DC t-shirt with bleach stains all over.

“This lagoon creature? My cousin Ben, no blood relation, thank you very much. Ben, you know Rose. This is Rey.”

Ben knows Rose because Paige is his TA. Also, because Hux would sacrifice an arm to get on that. He would do just about anything, probably, bar actually asking her out. 

Ben _definitely_ knows Rey.

“Hey,” he breathes out.

“Hey,” her smile widens.

Finn soon gets his chai latte and takes Tico Jr away to select a table. Both Ben and Rey track their progress, making sure the distance is safe. She switches to quiet, serious tone that would look like a calm conversation to anyone watching.

“I’m sorry I forgot to ask your name. Rude of me.”

“I haven’t asked, either.” He picks a sealed cup of creamer to tap against the counter, a nervous tic. 

“True.” Silence. She bites her lip. “So, you’re the renowned lab-dwelling chemist brother. I’ve heard a lot about you. The worst things.”

Ben looks down. The creamer label is decorated with a smiling cow. He doesn’t want to make small talk, is bad at it, but leaving is not an option, either. So. He’ll have to, to avoid coming off as standoffish or unhappy to see her. He opens his mouth, words unformed-

“Did it bruise bad?” She interrupts. He glances up quickly, catches her eyes as they search his face, go left-right between his like windshield wipers. The way her lashes sweep up and hair forms two almost cartoonish ringlets just under her earlobes creates a sweet, adorable façade. Her smiles come easy, but he doubts the same can be said about this barely contained hungry look.

Adrenalin pulls at his diaphragm, sending a sharp spike of arousal lower. He un-freezes, gulps. Nods.

Her pupils flood the warm sunlit hazel with black. “Can I see?” It’s barely a whisper. “Sorry! Sorry. Inappropriate-”

He nods again.

A short corridor that leads to the toilets is hidden away from public around a far corner. Lights are still off; only the general area’s illumination creeps here to chase away complete darkness. Hux’s raised eyebrow accompanies the entire procession until they dive behind the wall, but, again, Ben doesn’t care. He stops, back to the paneling in an exact copy of their encounter. Rey is looming, something predatory in how her eyes glisten in the shadows. The t-shirt licks his side as he lifts it, exposing skin to cool air. For a second, fear: the mark is almost gone, what if it’s completely invisible now? But Rey jerks.

“Can I-” She’s hoarse. “Can I touch it?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat because he sounds equally undone. “Yes.”

The berry smell of her gum invades his personal space when she steps closer and palms his lower ribs, thumb overtop the bruise. Her warming touch is sure, dry. He holds his breath, barely a step away from praying, feeling like his own skin is too tight and raw. He doesn’t notice when his eyes fall shut.

But she does it. She reads his fucking mind, she does it, she presses in: softly at first, but harder when he starts nodding again, shallow and non-stop. It hurts, and he’s half-hard. In Hux’s fucking coffee shop, before 9:00 a.m.

“Well, fuck,” she exhales with a delighted smile, leaning in closer, every freckle, every speck of glitter in her lip gloss his to study. She chews a couple of times and blows a bubble until it pops into a thin film over the shine. “Do you, like… want my number?”

When they reemerge, he’s the one chewing the gum.

***

He wakes up to a soft airy thud: Rey, bright-faced, plops on the mattress beside him. The early orange sun barely filters into their twilight-purple bedroom. She bobs her head forward to loudly kiss the bridge of his nose; minty breath and one ponytail escapee tickle his cheek. Her sparkly eyes are all excitement.

“Let’s play today, okay?” She whispers, giddy. It’s their default weekend activity, but she always asks, anyway. After his nod, she adds: “Awesome! I’ve put the kettle on.” And leaves, tagging the blanket off him in the process, forceful like a hurricane. Stomping down the stairs.

They go on their obligatory morning jog. Different route today, still discovering the best path around new neighborhood. This one’s better, goes deeper into the park: more trees, softer ground for his bad knee. Rey is six feet ahead to his right, as usual, elbows blinking steadily and breaths visible in the morning chill, escaping over her shoulder in golden underlit puffs. Her ass is magnificent. The long curve of thigh turning into leg also draws his eye over and over, the way her flesh moves when her sneakers meet the ground. Her neck is starting to glisten with sweat, trapping flyaway hairs to tan skin.

They make good miles, get home drenched when light becomes confidently yellow and warm. While he puts down some fluids and granola bars, Rey claims first shower to emerge in a towel turban. Her comfy leggings look like acid-washed jeans and lead into a pair of white All Stars. Peak Suburban Mom. The laces are tucked inside instead of being tied properly.

“Go clean up,” she says. His teeth squeak from how hard he clenches his jaw. He throws the plastic blender container he’s been drinking the smoothie out of; it lands in their farmhouse sink loudly, splatters green everywhere. Rey doesn’t even flinch. She does, however, smile sunnily as he walks past. He’s drifting off already. His speech is going. There’s calm but, simultaneously, a low hum of excitement as Ben takes a step back and lets that prissy, entitled irritation that’s usually buzzing deep inside to the forefront.

Rey lets him put on a pair of thin sleeping pants and blow-dries his hair. Towel gone, hers is almost there on its own and is gathered out of the way into a messy topknot. Sharp short nails leave sparkling traces of pleasure across his scalp when she decides to dig in while tossing his curls. Trying to suppress the resulting shivers is useless.

It’s crystal clear when she finally slips into her dominant persona in full. By the manner she holds herself, amused and a bit lazy, back straight, shoulders relaxed. Her eyes switch between hooded and open wide, faux innocence in them syrupy and mocking at the same time. With every too-sincere concern, every smirk she’s making it known: this tantrum of his is only entertained out of sheer kindness of her heart.

The Guest Room is toasty; Rey took care of the thermostat. She has a firm grip on his left wrist as she leads him to stand under the hardpoint in the ceiling. Memories of testing it are sweet and happy: after the forged eye bolt had been installed, they took turns dangling from it, Rey first as the lightest. They were both swinging in the end, yodeling like Tarzan and laughing. But there’s still a fresh smiley sticker on the inspection clipboard, which requires a visit to the attic. Rey’s been busy while he showered. There’s also a white faux-fur blanket under his feet, thrown over the carpet. Black fireplace incident scorch mark that banned it from their living room is visible along one side. 

A rope has been fed through the ring, and it caresses his bare back gently, light contact almost burning, when he turns to face the room. Window treatments here are white medium weight linen. No one can see inside, but dispersed light infuses grey walls with warmth and underlines the wavy texture of acoustic panels. It’s comfortable and fuzzy, and Ben’s head is to match. His heart is booming steadily inside him, sending red echo to his lips and fingertips, his inner elbows.

“Alright!” Rey says with a toothy smile. “Hands together in the front.”

The jute is soft on his skin. It slides between her capable fingers like a glossy snake. He’s always been horrible when it came to knots, never made it in the boy scouts. She’s unfolding her rope the proper way, white coils going perfectly with her pink oversized Gap sweatshirt. They’re not a leather or latex kind of couple.

Prepared equipment promises nothing complicated. He doesn’t mind. The rhythm of Rey weaving loops around his forearms after finding the bight is hypnotizing. His breath becomes shallow, but still enough to catch the crisp apple scent of the shampoo and body wash they share. His wrists get compressed together, pulse point to pulse point; his own blood is pushing into the thin skin there. Not too tight, but snug. He can flex. He cannot pull his arms apart.

She laces him two thirds to the elbow, corset looser the higher it climbs – to spare the joints. Her touch is solid and unquestionable. A pretty row of neat loops rests where his limbs meet. There will be a square knot to finish the bind… Here, he’s right: the rope makes a dry, smooth sound as its twists glide against one another, followed by a crisp squeak when it’s secured tightly. Its spare end is folded inside for a cleaner appearance. Rey checks for safety the way she usually does, by sticking two fingers between him and the cuff. The contact is cool. She makes a hook and grips with her thumb to test her work by yanking at it, once, twice. It goes up his arms, down the spine and to his core. Mutely, he stares. She’s watching him, pupils blown wide and lips licked red, a barely visible fold of concentration between the eyebrows. 

Once satisfied, Rey puts both palms on his shoulders, fingers fanned, and slowly slides, stroking first skin and then rope. They’ve broken this jute set in months ago, so it has the signature acquired shine. Finally, she reaches his hands and squeezes for a second, reassuring, before letting go.

“Pretty boy.” It’s rough. “Now, give me the safe signal.”

He glares down at her.

A grin is tagging one corner of those red lips up. Lightning-fast, she grabs a fistful of his curls and pulls until involuntary tears blur everything. His hair is almost long enough to be wound around her fist. The pain is so bright. It makes his lower back tense, his skin flash hot, immediately more sensitive. He blinks the mist away to see Rey’s nose all bunched up in amusement.

“I said,” she pulls harder and brings their faces closer together, sharp white teeth bared, “give me. The safe. Signal.”

He snaps his fingers three times.

“Good boy.”

“Fuck this!”

She lets him go, patting his head the way one would do to a bratty kid, and takes the second rope from behind his back. A second later she’s gone from his field of vision, and he hears the hissing of fibers against metal. His arms are lifting up-up-up. He straightens voluntarily, head fitting in the tight triangle created by his bound hands: shoulders practically near ears, elbows pressed close. His stomach is stretched and vulnerable; he has to step his feet wider apart. He twists lightly, settling into the changed position, tasting it.

It’s good. It’s so fucking good.

“Any pain?”

He growls, but shakes his head, because previous experience guarantees she won’t let it go.

“Great. Safe signal, please!” She sing-songs.

“I fucking did that already!”

“Aw,” is drawled behind him mockingly, and the upward tension starts to loosen.

Another growl, but he snaps his fucking fingers three fucking times.

“Good.”

Rey never kneels to blow him – she crouches, heels off the floor. For additional bounce, apparently. Before any bouncing can take place, however, she sucks on the tip of Ben’s cock in preparation, holding it at the base with casual assuredness of a property owner. Gathers some precum and spit in her mouth as he squirms and keens at the promising pleasure of it. It’s a view, her letting sleek dribble down his length from the tip of that pink triangle tongue. She’s connected to him with a thin string of liquid when she backs away a bit to move her fingers up and down, spread the shine to ease her way.

Her throat is what dreams are made of. Tight, hot, humming dreams. Time flow kind of shatters for Ben, reality breaking through in distinct flashes. Scorching red anger sits heavy inside. Rey knows exactly what he needs. But there’s no way she’s going to give it up this easily. Will the begging suffice? Or will she push until he’s crying, non-verbal? It’s overwhelming. But he can’t give in. She has him literally by the balls, feels his every twitch; he can’t give in, otherwise-

“Okay, that’s enough of that.”

-she always stops.

Rey’s voice is raspy. She wipes the lower half of her face with a sleeve as she raises, bloodshot eyes watering after accommodating him. Her fingers are shiny, lips sore-bright.

“No!” He shouts. Not desperate yet. But already helpless.

“A girl’s gotta eat, babe.” She shrugs, breezy, playful. “You already had your breakfast.”

And she. Fucking. Leaves!

Ben thrushes and kicks to no avail. The room is stuffy from his roars, salty smell of arousal. His consciousness starts traveling from deep inside and into the outside layer of flesh, settle in the pressure where ropes press tight, where blood is heavy between his legs. Wet, open to the air skin feels illusory cool. 

Rey returns just as he’s started striking out at nothing with one leg. She opens the door with her butt, turns. Laughs through crunchy cereal. There’s a bowl and a spoon in her hands. For real.

“That looks uncomfortable.”

“You’re going to eat _now_? Here? Is this fucking entertaining enough to you?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, licking up another spoonful. Her legs eat the distance with unnatural speed. Cold metal is suddenly pressed against Ben’s nipple, snatching a jolt out of him. Rey licks away a milk droplet left behind, sucks on his skin. Bites down. His cock drips precum on the rug, clear beads still on the tufts of fur. The spoon plops back in the bowl, and Rey smacks his cock gently from side to side, the heavy weight of it slapping against his own body. “You, all bothered and prissy, is my favorite entertainment.” She grips him, too tight. “And if you don’t stop throwing a tantrum, I’ll bind your heel to your ass and leave you hanging here one-legged like a confused flamingo.”

“Let me come!”

She shoves him and ventures to the windowsill where things wait in a neat row, taking another bite in the process. Ben can hear the crunch. Then, a plastic click. Smell of pineapple sparks, gets stronger. Rey returns with lube raised high in one hand, squeezes the bottle. Cold generously coats his lower stomach, thighs, cock. He wants her mouth back on it; can practically hear the obscene litany of gagging. “You good?” She asks in a dismissive manner.

He probably makes some noise.

By the time the plate’s bottom is revealed, he hates cereal, mornings, breakfasts. The handle of Rey’s spoon is glossy from lube. Every time he feels her fingers working him good enough to send sparks flying out of his eyes, she snatches them away to gobble up another portion of soggy rings and by-now-pinkish milk. She knows everything he likes. Has it down to science. Every twist and turn and change of pace. His body is curling on itself, desperate to find release, his hips fly forward on their own volition, fucking into nothing. The heat reached his head and burned all else in its wake. It roars in his skull, pushing out everything but static. When Rey’s thumb grazes his slit, he sees white.

“Coffee time,” Rey announces with a step back. She wipes her hand on his stomach, smearing it in translucent warmth.

No. No. “No! I can’t!”

“Aw, of course you can, baby. I know you can. I believe in you.”

It allows for a window to unwind a little, but there’s no relief after a certain point. When, once again, she stops and remembers the forgotten hazelnut creamer, he’s there, in that black-and-white place devoid of rationality.

“Rey, please,” he breathes out, barely a whisper. His arms and legs are filled with this fuzzy floating sensation, and only the scalding poker of unreleased pleasure keeps him tethered. He’s a wet mess, sweat and tears and melting lube sliding down his body, hair sticking. “Please, let me come.”

She makes an exaggerated pout and does a crying baby voice, pretending to wipe imaginary tears under one eye with a fist. Sips obnoxiously loud from her Best Mommy mug.

At the end, both the contact and its absence are equally torturous. The slightest touch to the head of his cock reads as crystalline edge. Rey absorbs every aspect of his reaction when she caresses his flanks where muscles spasm, tweaks his nipples, bites the vulnerable undersides of his arms bared for feasting. His voice is high, raw, more of the same old _please_, but also _I tried to be good_. And, _for you_.

Pupils blown, she’s shaking a little. “Yes, baby. You’re right.” Her hands are fucking perfect, made to be wrapped around his cock, tag at his balls. Just so. Just like this. “You tried very hard. You’re very good. I’m proud of you.”

She doesn’t pull away this time when galaxies start bursting behind his eyelids, but it’s more the praise that really does it.

***

There’s something off about Rey, a fact that to Ben is immediately obvious. It might be the paleness seeping through her tan, or bluish shadows underneath the eyes. A neon red Adidas sweatshirt, severely oversized, is trying to eat her alive: only her face and a messy topknot, pressed down and forward by her hoodie, are visible.

She’s not holding his gaze captive as she normally would, just shoots a sole glance upwards from the floor. Her jaw is working, grinding teeth.

“What’s up,” Ben greets with an inviting step aside. Which is a first; she usually just storms through doors.

“I’m, uh, can we talk?” One shoulder moves in a circle, uneasy. 

Fall is in full swing; it’s warmer than it’s going to be in a short time, but frost preemptively pierces Ben’s guts. A dozen stupid reasons why college relationships don’t survive graduation flash through his mind. Divergence in political opinions. Petty drama. Negligence.

He says, “Sure.”

Rey’s worn All Stars squeak against the linoleum on their walk past the kitchen, and Hux straightens from a tray of pizza rolls. Ben’s clearly desperate to rush and be alone, but his asshole of a roommate has observations to share, as per usual.

“Whatever it is you crazy kids have been doing, I beg you: please, keep doing it.” Hux’s usual grimace suddenly relaxes into an approximation of happiness. “I swear there were never more than two whole plates at the same time in this godforsaken apartment.”

“Ha-ha, yeah.” Rey actually _says_ the words “ha-ha”, forceful and mirthless, zooming towards Ben’s bedroom. Ben sneers and stomps at Hux only to be lightly swatted at with a kitchen towel.

They haven’t had enough time together to create any substantial amount of memories in Ben’s space. But: quality over quantity. Last weekend was spent holed up here instead of driving home. Rey bound Ben’s wrists to his ankles with pantyhose, turned him into a chair for herself; applied sweet-smelling glitter gloss across his mouth – a thick layer that tasted peachy. Sat on his face until the entire lower half of it became a glistening mess and she was pink, sloppy wet, and covered with an occasional iridescent sparkle.

“I’m sorry,” Rey says choppily as soon as the door clicks behind them, and her expression is so different compared to the breathless hunger from his memory.

Something starts pulsating under Ben’s solar plexus. Something painful. He gulps, a petrified statue by the threshold. “What for?”

She takes off pacing from window to the bed and back, teeth on a hoodie string. “Yesterday, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” he corrects automatically. “What about yesterday?”

This earns a grim “come on” expression. “You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t get it.”

“I was so mean to you!” Rey bursts. The string flies out, swings limply. Her wide, defensive stance and clenched fists tag at the pain inside Ben.

They volunteered to help Poe with cable arrangement in the lab. Which involved a bag of zip ties. It was left lighter after their departure. Ben’s wrists carry raised mauve welts like bracelets. One bled where the milky plastic bit through his skin at some point. He probably flexed when he came. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt today because of it. In the morning, before shower, the marks where there. They made him half-hard. Stark crisscrossing lines looked so fucking good on his pale arms, he was licking at them before he realized he was doing it, wide flat cat licks.

He had fun. It was intense, but not anything out of the ordinary-

Well. Except maybe for Rey… saying things. Hissing them hotly in his face, shaking his head by the hair, lighting his nerve endings up with almost-electricity. It echoes as a wave of tingles now.

_-mommy has no time for your spoiled whiny ass, maybe that’s why you’re such a needy little bitch, how lucky for you that I like putting clingy upstarts back in their place-_

She pushed him away like he was worthless, like he was dirt, and he landed on the mattress back first, bounced atop his awkwardly bound hands, and it hurt, yes, but it was also so very, _very_ good. When Rey’s slick fingers made a sleeve around his cock, he forgot about the discomfort, drowning in pleasure that humiliation only undercrossed and turned molten-hot.

But, no matter how good it was for him… to have Rey suffer for his pleasure isn’t his desire. The whole experience might be tainted, really, after seeing his partner so upset. That’s not fun at all. How was it not obvious yesterday? He was probably too loopy to even formulate sentences at the time.

“Mean because of, like… the stuff you said?” He asks tentatively to make sure they’re on the same page. He has to clear his throat to do it.

Rey’s eyes well up and, to his utter shock, she begins to cry. It’s quiet, all trembling chin and pitiful face, arms hanging uselessly in surrender. Ben jolts like a disturbed wasp, lurching towards her but unsure of his welcome. She notices, of course, and wipes at the tears with too-long sleeves, motion choppy. She’s clearly upset. With herself? With him? He’s not certain. Moisture soaks the fabric, turns it blood-red. He had never seen a crying Rey before; irate or contemplative, sure, and mostly smiling that sharp bright grin, but never crying.

He makes a decision. She, a delicate person who is somehow larger than life, is trembling with sobs when he hugs her. Peels the hood away, tucks her head under his chin. The topknot tickles. “Hey, come on. I wanted you to. Plus, you don’t really think that about me.”

She shakes her head vehemently and forces out: “We should stop doing this.”

There’s an alarm clock on the bookshelf ticking seconds away. Panic tries to bubble up. Ben’s heartbeat goes into overdrive, but he’s determined to keep it together for them both. “That’s entirely the wrong conclusion.”

“I’m not usually that way,” Rey snuffles, mournful. “I’m a good person. I’m not- _like that_.” 

“I know.” It doesn’t really click, why he’s supposed to think less of her. The truth is, she’s not _like_ anything. She’s the type of person to make sure her partners are sober and consenting at a beer-soaked sorority party. There _is_ anger in her, yes. Vaults of it, in fact, deep-rooted and vast. But it’s also unbearably attractive that she can tap into it for a short while and really bring him down, yet never let the emotion take over. He sucks in a deep lungful. She smells strongly of her own scent – as is usually the case by the end of the day, – pleasing in a primal way. 

“I hurt you-” She grasps his wrist where the sleeve rode up. It’s hovering in her line of vision, his thumb behind her blushed ear. The welts are on display. She recoils. Hazel eyes go wide, tears fattening. “I hurt you.”

Ben doesn’t let go, bows a bit to peer into her face sincerely: “I like it. Rey, I promise. I want it so. Fucking. Much.”

She searches his expression through wet eyelashes, finds no lie. “Alright.” 

“Do _you_ like it?” He prompts, suddenly unsure.

That internal spark ignited anew, Rey reaches up to grab his nape; chases the need to reassure, catch him. “Too much. Sometimes it’s all I can think about.” Well, thank god. She surges up suddenly, head angled, but instead of a kiss Ben receives a bite: teeth clamping over jaw, a brand of wet heat. She presses harder, shakes them from side to side like a pit bull to extract a quiet gasp and only then sets him free, going down from tiptoes. His relief is powerful. “But we’ll have to talk and, and discuss things before we do them. Use stop-words. The whole nine yards.” A bit more strength and assuredness enters her voice.

He cringes. “Do we have to.”

“If you want to do those things with me? Yes.”

And… what else is there to say, really.

***

“Need any help?”

Dave enjoys October mornings very much. Apple fritters with cinnamon glaze? Serve me up! Old maple tree in the back looking all spooky through slight fog? Yes, thank you. Decorating the front yard for Halloween? Hell yeah! 

He’s got a voluminous but lightweight bag of ochre and sepia leaves in one hand to scatter over the lawn strategically. Too busy embodying a deranged flower girl, he misses Rey Naberrie at first. She’s wrapped in a tartan throw, feet planted wide and fingers around an oversized mug, as she looks up at her own house in contemplation.

Dave’s a good neighbor. He always offers help.

“Thank you kindly!” She calls back. The words curl in white wisps, melt away together with the steam. “But I’m an engineer, I think I got it!”

Klaus and Carla are done with their display already. Took the tasteful rout this year: wreaths and banister garlands of hay and wheat peppered by orange flowers, an entire army of uncarved pumpkins and gourds, decorative apple lanterns on now-naked apple tree near the driveway. Someone further down the road has everything looking like Jolly Green Giant puked all over their plot. Tano put up the usual cemetery with a few PTA names on the gravestones.

Dave prefers the classics: a scarecrow flocked by uncanny valley crows that are a bit banged up after their year-long attic vacation, but still passable at sundown. Jack-o’-lanterns. Bats!

He crosses the street – empty, save for an occasional dry leaf scraping the asphalt – to ask: “Do you guys have a concept?” So exciting. “It doesn’t really have to be something big and flashy, you know.”

Up close, Rey seems sleepy. Smells of cinnamon and cocoa waft through the air. “You’ll just have to wait and see!” She laughs.

“Will you be insane scientists?!” Because, perfect fit!

“That’s a great idea, actually!” Rey shakes a finger at Dave’s remarkable thinking. “We could throw some dry ice and colorful light pucks in those big cauldrons, put beakers with neon liquids under UV. Make Ben do a small elephant toothpaste demonstration…” From the looks of it, potential Halloween shenanigans start running before her inner eye. She snaps back to reality. “Next year, however. I’ll credit you!”

Come afternoon, Dave is done with half the chores and can be found fueling up on sugary cereal in the kitchen, while Emma chops pears (spies on neighbors) by the sink. The Naberries just started mounting their illumination. Half of it is technical and involves Rey atop a step ladder Ben holds so tight his hands look hulked out even from afar. The remaining time is spent chasing each other across the lawn, whooping, and throwing leaves.

“Remember being this young?” Emma giggles, sticky knife pointed outside. Her whole presence is soft, lovely, one blond curl resting against rosy cheek.

“Yesh,” he has to slurp and cup a palm under his chin where milk escaped. “You definitely had speed. Should’ve been an RB. Could always give me a run for the money.”

“Never tied you to a porch, though.” One shuffle with the plate later Dave can peek outside at a heap of appendages. Amused Rey is straddling her husband while her hands loosely wrap unadorned daisy-chain wire around his wrists and one blonde wood rail. He’s kicking, but it’s uninspired, almost lazy. When the woman flees, he frees himself easily, hot on her tail. Dave aims for a dairy-flavored smooch and is waved away.

On the day of, the weather is perfect. Clear skies, that smoky fall smell everywhere, a burgundy sunset. This is probably Joe’s last proper trick-or-treating session. It’s almost palpable. The neighborhood is considered prime full-size candy source, so Joe’s school friends tagged along. Their group costume is a great indicator of teenage years to come: identical plain t-shirts, with Twin One in the lead sporting a (group costume) over his chest in shaky acrylic letters and Twin Two in the back concluding with (/group costume). They require only the breeziest supervision, and Twin Two, a sasquatch among the rest, already got his pubescent moody slouch and pocket-bound hands.

But for now, on this evening, it’s all sugar-sticky grins, candlelit organza, glow-in-the-dark plastic, glitter and laughter. Childhood.

The green house had cotton candy and lemonade machines. Someone installed a spider to swing from their awning, and Tori Rolan allegedly ran wailing all the way to her dads. A couple of families were curtained off until today, so the reveals are interesting.

Emma is in the doorway, a giant bowl of candy atop her forearms, having just sent off a couple of astronauts. She notices Dave’s procession and waves, gleeful; points. The Naberries had a reveal, too.

Horror Hospital! A cross of red light gives everything an eerie tint. There are bloodied sheets strung up to form a suspenseful almost-labyrinth; buckets of red dye with pink jelly brains and bloodshot gummy eyes line the walkway. At the porch stairs they are greeted by gory fake fingers on medical trays and an arrangement of amputated legs in a bucket. A saw lies nearby. There’s also a spot of additional ambience: warm glow on the veranda carving out a mysterious shape from twilight beyond it. 

“Awesome!” Joe proclaims, torpedoing ahead. 

While Emma catches up to dive under his arm, Dave is able to identify the weird lighting as infrared outdoor heaters, aimed at one specific area. Great. The snicker escapes before he can catch it. All four of his wards are skipping the steps two at a time, hands outstretched towards the bell, when the vague shape sits up suddenly, groaning.

No one would fess up after the fact, but there is squealing. And spinning in place. And colliding.

“Ha!” Rey jumps out from behind the front door. She’s in a grotesque surgeon getup: bloodied scrubs, cap, and latex gloves all included. The red-soaked fabric of her surgical mask moves with every scream and word. “Time for your check-up, kids!” The deranged laughter follows. Joe&Co join in, adrenalin adding an edge to the sound. Rey high-fives her husband, who on closer inspection is groaning for real. Out of annoyance. The grey-and-blue face paint and a flimsy hospital gown really add to the sulk. He extracts one hand from the black body bag and offers his palm for a clap.

“Don’t you just love this? Isn’t this fun?!” Rey tags the mask away, revealing sharp teeth in a white crescent. “You like it? I’m sawbones, and here is the poor zombified victim of my experiments. You’re not cold, babe?”

More grunts. Kids stare, wary, shuffle closer to Rey and her gifts.

Naberrie are a treat bag household. Thin plastic is stylized as something to hold biohazard waste; amidst miscellaneous sweets, toys, and stationery Dave spots a cheerful “I donated!” button. Rey notices him looking. “Naboo Children’s,” she explains, “since we made a heresy of their whole deal. Five dollars for every trick-or-treater, my office will match it.”

“That’s wonderful!” Emma exclaims. She’s shoving Joe&Co down to dig through their spoils in the sheet labyrinth.

“It is!” From inside the hallway Rey produces a bedpan of syringes, all brimming with translucent red. “Jell-O shots for the parents?”

“Please!”

Ben is the fastest, claiming two. They spurt into his mouth simultaneously and he flops back on the gurney. It makes a strained sound under the weight; the body bag puffs up in a slowly falling bubble. Yeah, he doesn’t seem the type to inhabit a haunted house of his own free will.

“Unfair,” Dave laughs, good-natured. “You get to lie back and relax for Halloween?!”

“More like, I get to catch up on all my skipped sit-ups.”

Rey can only offer a shrug. “I always strive to be realistic about what I’m working with. Ben is very good at lying still.”

Ben groans again, but it’s definitely hiding a chuckle.

“Aw, they’re so in love,” Emma coos afterwards. 

Remembering their first drunk Halloween together, Dave looks at her: cute button nose and a pout outlined in gold by fairy lights. He knows the taste of her pink lower lip very well. He knows her pretty well, overall, that’s why in lieu of something flowery he does what she is going to find truly romantic. Shares gossip. “But it’s not just me, there’s some kinkery going on, right?”

Her entire face scrunches up hilariously as she swats the questioning tone away like a bothersome fly: “Oh, for! _Sure!”_

He squeezes her fingers tighter, laughing, as she starts leading him away. 

**Author's Note:**

> **Thank you for reading my story! <3 If you liked it, please let me know.**


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